


Nonetheless, We Have the Will

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Abuse of Canon, Alternate Universe - High School, Archery, Background Relationships, Car Sex, First Time, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, difficult parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Fury says Phil needs to be more "rounded" to get into Harvard? Fine. He'll join the damned archery club. That's easy, right?</p><p>(It's really, really not. Fortunately, Clint's a very understanding guy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nonetheless, We Have the Will

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/gifts).



> A couple months ago, I had two ideas for high school AUs I could write for Perpetual Motion for her birthday. I couldn't decide between them, so I wrote them both. ["A Good Turn Daily"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1076538) is the other. Both could be subtitled: "In which I do hideous things to Marvel canon and regret nothing."
> 
> Title from Tom Lehrer's "Fight Fiercely, Harvard".

"Say that again, please." The 'please' is a rote formality, and Phil utters it with the same intonation he might use to say 'motherfucker'.

Mr. Fury leans forward, propping his elbows on his desk and folding his hands under his chin. "You're a smart kid. So is every other Harvard applicant."

"All due respect, _sir,_ I'm not a 'smart kid'. I'm first in my fucking class." On his list of questionable life choices, dropping an f-bomb in front of the high school career counselor ranks way high. He's beyond caring.

Mr. Fury just nods. "Which is why your application's gonna last ten seconds instead of two. But you're not genius-level, and you're not legacy, so they don't have to worry about losing your parents' alumni donations. You have incredible potential. But you're not Harvard material yet."

"Mr. Hammer never said--"

"I'm sure he didn't." Mention of his predecessor makes a muscle in Mr. Fury's jaw twitch. "Principal Stark hired me to impart a few home truths Mr. Hammer wouldn't because he was too worried about keeping his job to _do_ his job. This is one of those truths: you wanna go Ivy League, you gotta be remarkable overall, not just academically."

Phil grits his teeth and looks out the window. This is _such_ bullshit, but Nick Fury's supposed to be the best high school career counselor in Illinois, so he's got Phil over a barrel. "What are my options?" he asks through gritted teeth.

" _Any_ nonacademic cocurricular's open to you," Mr. Fury says, the faint hint of amusement in his voice Phil's only clue that he's being teased, "but I took the liberty of compiling a short list, based on your schedule and interests."

Phil surveys the list, complete with meeting times and general commitment levels, that Fury hands him. It's a _very_ short list, but considering Fury could've delivered his damn 'home truth' and booted Phil out of the office, Phil feels strangely honored.

The GSA's a no-go. Sure, straight students join it--it's right there in the name. But he's _not_ straight, and he's not ready for the whole world to know that.

Drama club is tempting. Pepper got involved with that while they were dating, and she loves it. But it demands a _lot_ of time. Phil may need to be a more 'rounded' person, but schoolwork has to be his top priority.

That leaves only one thing on the list. Phil _could_ take the time to investigate other options--it's a big school; he could find _something--_ but he wants this exercise in absurdity over as quickly as possible. Besides, this one'll be a cake walk. "Fine," he says, creasing Mr. Fury's list and tucking it into his backpack, "I'll join the archery club."

*

Phil's arms shake. His back is a solid plane of aching. His eyes sting; he thinks it's sweat, but it could be tears. This is bull. It's a stupid piece of wood set against another piece of wood with string. He's smarter than this, damn it. He plants his feet, sights as best he can, and lets his arrow fly. It's a graceless shot, lacking form or follow-through. He doubles over, panting, bow tumbling from numb fingers.

"Not bad."

Phil doesn't have the energy to give the archery club captain an incredulous look. But maybe Clint hears it, because he says, "I mean it. For someone who'd never held a bow an hour ago, you're picking it up pretty quickly."

Phil tries to wheeze out his thanks, or maybe a 'fuck you', but he slumps to his knees instead, deeming it a better use of his energy reserves.

He feels Clint watching in dismay, probably trying to figure out if Phil needs an ambulance. Then he raises his voice for the other club members to hear. "Okay, that's it for today. Good job, everybody. New dudes, get your waivers signed so you can shoot next week. There's exercise sheets on the table in the shed if you want arm workout stuff; I swear it totally helps. Get outta here, hoodlums!"

In seconds, the range is clear except for Phil, struggling slowly and painfully to his feet, and Clint, hovering beside the equipment shed the archery club and team share with the rowing team. Phil makes his careful way to the target to retrieve his arrows, then moves with equal deliberation to the shed. If he moves at a stately, dignified, snail-like pace, he hurts fractionally less. By the time he gets there, everyone has put away their bows and arrows and split. He hangs the bow and puts the arrows in their bin, then slinks out of the shed, not looking at the little table and its stack of papers.

"Hey, listen."

Phil does _not_ jump six inches in the air, but only because he doesn't have the strength. He turns what he hopes is a disinterested gaze on Clint and wonders if Clint can see the rapid fluttering of his pulse points.

"If you want to practice between club days, the range is open anytime the team's not practicing."

Phil looks at him blankly. "Why would I want to do that?"

"In case, you know..." A bit of Clint's confidence evaporates, and he scratches the back of his neck. Phil doesn't think it's cute. Not one bit. No way. "I just thought, you're off to a great start, you don't want to lose momentum."

They're talking two different languages. "Uh, thanks," he says, "but I'm just here because Mr. Fury's making me. I don't want to spend more time here than I have to."

Clint's face...it doesn't change in any way Phil could describe, but he sees a flash of something that makes him feel, for the brief second it's visible, like Earth's shittiest human. "Right, okay," Clint says. "I get it."

"I mean," Phil rushes to add, "I'm sure archery's great and everything, and you seem really good at it, but it's not important to me, so I'm gonna put in my time so I can be more 'rounded' for Harvard or whatever, and then I'm out of your hair."

"Okay." Clint looks lost, then he nods. "Okay, wow. That's...thank you for being honest."

Phil shrugs. "Don't see the point in lying."

"Okay, we'll...see you next week, I guess." They nod at each other, and Clint makes his way off the range. Then he pauses. "Hey, Phil!" he calls, which startles Phil because he hadn't realized Clint knew his name. "How will you know?"

Phil has been picking up his books, and he pauses in an awkward half-crouch, cradling Calc. II like a sleeping infant. "Know what?"

"When you've put in enough time to be more rounded?"

At this exact moment, Phil realizes what an utter fuckpuck he's been. 

*

Phil knows better than to stop moving on an el platform, especially with an overful cup of scalding coffee in each hand and arms made of sore noodles, but as the doors close behind him and the train chugs away, he realizes his mistake. Bringing Clint conciliatory coffee seemed like a good idea when he was standing in line in the Dunkin' at his end of the Blue Line, but he has no idea where Clint will be. Shield High School is three blocks from the station and arranged more like a military base than a school. Trying to find one person in the sprawl of ugly concrete buildings seems the height of futility, and with 3,000 students, odds are against finding anyone who knows Clint and where he might be.

Lacking better options, Phil squares his shoulders and heads toward the range. He's a creature of habit. He has to hope Clint is, too.

No one's on the range, but light and laughter spill from under the storage shed door. He's not _trying_ to sneak as he approaches, but people have told him, usually with their faces flushed and their hands over their hearts, that he walks very quietly. So he's startled when a throaty female voice inside the shed speaks low and fast, and then absolute silence falls.

Phil hesitates by the door. What if it's not Clint in there? It could be some janitors sneaking a smoke break. He should go.

No, he came out here, damn it. "Clint?" he calls softly. "It's Phil. Coulson. From the club." He winces. _Lame._

A brief pause precedes a flurry of motion and whispering, and then the door cracks open. He makes out of sliver of Clint's tousled blond hair and half a blue eye. "Just you?"

"Uh, yeah." Who would be with him?

"Come on." Clint motions him in. "Quick!"

Phil understands the need for caution the instant he's inside. The amount of smoke is impressive. He swallows a cough. As his eyes adjust, he takes in the three students sitting in a circle with Clint. There's a small-framed redhead he thinks is an exchange student, a skinny blond he vaguely recognizes from AP American History, and a sprawled-out brunette who doesn't look familiar. They watch him with varying levels of suspicion.

"This is Phil," Clint says, voice pitched to be soothing. "He's cool." He glances at Phil. "You're cool, right?"

Phil swallows his laugh. He's been called a lot of things, and 'cool' has never been one of them. But he knows what Clint means, so he nods. "I don't mind."

The brunette produces a joint from, seemingly, the air (for a second it looks like it comes out of his _arm_ , which can't be right) and gives a smile at once laconic and menacing before offering Phil the joint.

"No, thanks. I--" Phil tries to gesture at his chest, which is how he remembers he's still holding the coffee. Great. He could whip out a slide rule next, prove himself more of a dweeb.

But the blond smiles and pats the ground next to him. "You can sit with me in Asthmatics Row." Phil notices he's farther from the other three than they are from each other.

Phil tries to sit and remembers the stupid coffees again. He steps into the circle, closer to Clint, and thrusts the cup at him. "Here. I got you coffee."

An indecipherable look, gone so fast Phil isn't sure it was there at all, flashes between Clint and the girl before Clint leans back on one arm and looks Phil up and down. The movement twists his shirt, revealing the tiniest strip of tanned, toned skin. "Well, now," he drawls, "didja bring enough for everyone, Mr. Coulson?" Phil's brain shuts down.

The thing no one tells you about being an almost-17-year-old queer kid in middle America is that, sure, the world's more accepting than it was ten years ago, but it's not gonna shower you with opportunities to test-drive the love which dare not speak its name. The sum total of Phil's experience with another guy is a handful of uninspiring kisses and one unsatisfying blowjob in the back seat of Johnny Storm's sister's car. And even when they were actively _doing_ stuff, Johnny never made Phil feel the way Clint does now, sitting there looking at him--dizzy and shaky and like every thought has been rerouted directly to his dick. "I...I, uh, I mean, I didn't know--"

It is, shockingly, the brunette who saves him. "Sheet, mon, dat stuff'll keel ya," he says before taking what must surely be the world's most ironic hit of weed and passing the joint to Clint.

Clint snorts and takes a quick pull off the joint--Phil almost thinks he didn't get any, but what does he know about smoking pot?--then hands it to the redhead and lunges up to take the coffee. This does more things to his shirt, showing off more skin, and Phil forces himself to look away--into the girl's amused and knowing gaze, which is _not_ better.

"So, have a seat," Clint says, gesturing between the blond and the redhead, "meet the gang." They're all sitting, but Clint is suddenly _different_ , more like a circus ringmaster than a stoned high school sophomore. "To my left, fighting for Mother Russia, Nataliya Romanova, who could kill us all with that joint, which we should not find as sexy as we do."

Phil's stomach sinks. A gorgeous guy, a beautiful woman--of course Clint and Nataliya are a couple.

"Call me Natasha," she murmurs as she hands Phil the joint. He passes it to the blond, who gives it to the brunette with a shy grin.

"To my right," Clint says, waving, "fresh from a year in Russia--("Though you wouldn't know it, the way he butchers the language," Natasha mutters)--"James 'Bucky' Barnes. And, yes, lady and gentlemen, he always talks like a Rasta-wannabe when he's stoned.

"Last and certainly least-- _for now_ \--the mighty Steve Rogers!" Clint points at the blond. "He may not look like much, but he drinks milk every day so he grows up big and strong!" Steve flips Clint off, but it seems more like ritual than actual insult.

Phil cocks his head. "Also from Russia?"

Steve offers his ready smile and shakes his head. "Brooklyn."

"Which might as well be Russia!" the others chorus, and all four burst out laughing. Crushing embarrassment slams into Phil. What is he doing? He's invading their space; he doesn't belong here.

Before he can move, Clint's gaze zeroes in on him. Never has he felt so intensely _seen_. "How 'bout you?"

Phil blinks. "How about me what?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "It's Clint's shtick. He's gotta give you an intro."

Phil shrugs. "There's nothing that interesting about me, sorry. I've lived in Chicago all my life. We don't even travel much."

"Come on," Clint wheedles. "You must've been _somewhere_. Done _something._ "

Another shrug. He goes to school. And studies. "We've been to Canada a couple times."

"Aaaaargh!" Clint slumps and takes what must be a deeply painful gulp of coffee. "You're killin' me, Coulson."

"It was Quebec," he offers, mostly as a joke, but Clint's eyes gleam, and the others sigh as he hauls himself out of his slouch.

"And our newest contender, Chicago's native son, the prodigal math-e-mat-i-cal--" ("Prodigy," Steve murmurs. "Shut up," Clint hisses back.) "Phil 'The Fighting Frenchman' Coulson!"

A chorus of groans greets this pronouncement, but Phil is all but glowing. Without a word said about it, he knows he's been forgiven. More amazing than that, he's been _accepted_.

*

Clint is alone on the range when Phil arrives two days later. Phil hangs back and watches him, heart in his throat, half-hard in his track pants. How had he imagined archery was _easy_? Clint has muscles that take _years_ to build, and his face is mask-like in its concentration. Every arrow flies true, clustering in a tight circle around the bullseye, but it's clearly _work_. Phil feels like such an ass.

After a few minutes, he realizes something else: Clint is shooting left-handed. He was definitely shooting right-handed yesterday. For some reason, Phil finds this to be the hottest thing _ever_.

When the quiver is empty, Clint lowers his bow, rolls his neck and shoulders, and looks around. Blue eyes widen when Clint spots him, and he lopes over with a wide grin. "Didn't see you there."

"You're amazing," Phil blurts, then kicks himself. _So_ uncool.

Clint nods easily. "Yeah, I am. You didn't have to come today. Your apology coffee got the message through pretty well."

Phil blushes and shakes his head. "You were right," he says. "If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it right."

Clint studies him for a minute and then nods. "Cool. Go get ready."

*

"Better today."

Phil pauses in hanging up his bow and looks at Clint; his smile is genuine, despite his pain. "Yeah, I think so."

"You're pretty good for a novice." He says it offhandedly, but Phil warms under the praise.

Phil ducks his head. "Thanks."

"There's a tournament at the end of the semester. Has an open division for club level. You could enter."

Phil scoffs and comes out of the shed, padlocking the door behind him. "No way I'm good enough for something like that."

Clint shrugs. "You wouldn't win--" Phil finds Clint's bluntness strangely comforting. "--but it'd look good on the Harvard application, right? Not just in the archery club, but participating in competitions."

Phil feels heat creep up the back of his neck. "Clint, I am _so sorry_ about--"

Clint shakes his head. "Forgotten. Seriously." There's steel in his voice, warning Phil not to bring it up again.

"A tournament sounds fun," Phil says. Then he stops, surprised, as he realizes he means that.

Clint grins and bounces on the balls of his feet, shifting his backpack higher on his shoulder. "Cool. I'll get you a registration form." He bites his lip; Phil makes a show of checking the zipper on his jacket as an excuse to look away. "Hey, what're you doing now?"

"Meeting some friends."

"Oh. Okay."

"Just. At the library. To study." Phil peeks at Clint. "I could skip this once." He tries to remember the last time he skipped a Saturday afternoon session--actually skipped, when he wasn't sick or under another obligation. He hasn't. Never once in two and a half years.

"Nah, it's all right." Clint gives his shoulders a weird sort-of shrug. "It's Steve's week to choose what we're doing, and it's going to be a folksy craft fair or an RC plane expo, and I need a buffer for his wholesome goodness."

Phil looks up fully, mouth quirking in a wry smile. "Isn't that what Natasha and Bucky are for?"

"Nat and Bucky," Clint scoffs, "will be too busy groping each other's asses--and Steve's--to pay attention to how much I don't want to be dragged on their tour of cheerful Americana kitsch." Phil's mouth drops open, and Clint snorts a humorless laugh. "Didn't I say?"

" _All_ of them?" Phil blurts.

Clint rolls his eyes and walks toward the East parking lot. Phil has to decide fast whether he'll follow or turn toward the West lot, where his car is. He has plenty of time to get to the library; no one ever need know he'd contemplated rebellion. But he knows himself too well to buy it: the rebellion was a given the instant it was so much as considered.

"Once upon a time," Clint says, "a girl was into two dudes and couldn't decide between them. One day she thought, _Hey. Why should I have to choose?_ and stated boning them both. The end."

Phil scratches the nape of his neck. "That's...quite a story."

"And now that Bucky and Steve have gotten over their hang-ups and sewn up their cute little love troika, I'm stuck in the crappiest soap opera plot outside _Telemundo._ "

Since he joined the archery club, Phil's been paying attention in the halls, and he's heard a lot about the reputation Clint and his friends have built for themselves. Mostly it has to do with Clint being stupid and good-for-nothing and dragging the others--especially Steve, who's supposedly a paragon of American virtue--down with him. Anyone who believes that has never spent even five minutes with Clint. Phil's not vindictive; if he happensto have tripped Matt Crabtree, who has the locker next to his and loves to badmouth Clint, it must've been an accident.

Because Clint sees _everything. Knows_ everything. Observational powers that amazing won't get Clint extra points on his ACT, won't get him into the college of his choice (whatever that is; funny it hasn't come up yet, when it's usually all Phil discusses with his classmates). But they're rare, and if Mike Crabtree knew what was good for him, he'd be on his scabby knees _begging_ Clint to teach him a tenth of what he knows about reading people. Phil's often tempted to do that himself.

Instead he follows Clint to the beat-up purple Reliant Phil's pretty sure runs on bullshit and dumb luck. Follows him to, yes, an RV expo at the Cook County fairgrounds, and then all the way back to Doc's, a rundown coffee shop/diner half a mile from school where kids who aren't on stupidly short parental leashes hang out after school. He eats the most delicious home fries he's ever tasted, drinks way too much coffee for three in the afternoon (watching in horror as Clint dumps five--or is it six?--sugar packets into every mug), laughs 'til his sides hurt, and learns that, yes, initiation by hot sauce is an actual thing.

The clock on the stove says 4:55 when Phil slips in the kitchen door. He's late. He's been texting Mom all afternoon, packs of lies about relocating to Starbucks because Jasper needed a turtle mocha and losing track of time in a complex physics exercise. But he's been gone since 7 this morning, and his parents will want to know why, and the only answer he dares give is more lies. He hasn't lied to their faces since he was five years old and denying any role in an empty cookie jar. But how can he do otherwise, when he hasn't so much as glanced at a textbook all day?

As he reaches for the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the living room, Phil can't bring himself to regret a minute of it.

*

 **AmazingHawkeye:** u had sex?

Phil stares at his phone. He and Clint have been texting all week. Phil prefers texts to phone calls because Dad can't hear texts. Clint prefers them because he can't hear much of anything. "My hearing aids are pretty good," he'd said with a shrug, "but they're shit for phone calls."

Clint is, simply put, _amazing._ He's sharp and funny and smart--scarily so; Phil's sure he'd be in the top ten percent of the class if his childhood had looked more like Phil's and less like the foster system and a brief stint in juvie and a _circus,_ for fuck's sake. Usually, Phil gets a crush on someone based on looks, and then that crush dies a fiery death once he gets to know them. But the more he learns about Clint, the more he likes him. The more he _wants_ him. He's pretty epically doomed.

Clint's funny, flirtatious texts have become the highlight of Phil's days, but this one ventures into territory they haven't dared before. He spends a long time considering his reply.

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** Not today, thx. Trying to keep my girlish figure

 **AmazingHawkeye:** hah. srsly.

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** y?

 **AmazingHawkeye:** d's writing a paper. "teen sex habits v. adult perception of same." k  & i r helpimg

Phil grins. Clint's foster sisters, Kate and Darcy (Kate's father and stepmother adopted Darcy out of the system when she was seven. Clint's lived with them for three years, and Phil knows they'd adopt Clint in a heartbeat, but he gets twitchy at the thought of that much permanence. The fact that Kate's sister Susan kind of hates Clint doesn't help), are a pair of sweet-faced, doe-eyed freshman _terrors._ Phil easily imagines Darcy accosting everyone she encounters with questions about their sex lives--and roping Clint and Kate into the fun.

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** yes

 **AmazingHawkeye:** # of partners?

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** At once?

 **AmazingHawkeye:** no. like how u think tho

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** 2

 **AmazingHawkeye:** 1 more then me. cool

 **AmazingHawkeye:** who?

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** Who?

Phil huffs a laugh. Those must've been sent at the exact same instant. He stares at his phone, wondering if they're going to try to wait each other out, but Clint's reply arrives instantly.

 **AmazingHawkeye:** nat. but j. like a think friends do 4 each other so we wouldnt b pathetic virgins. she  & i were not meant 2 d8. like ever

 **AmazingHawkeye:** *thing

 **AmazingHawkeye:** u?

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** Pepper, obviously

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** And Johnny Storm

 **AmazingHawkeye:** wanker

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** Me or him?

 **AmazingHawkeye:** him. mayb u 2 4 sexing him

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** Maybe

 **AmazingHawkeye:** least u got a dude. 1 up on me

Phil scratches a notation on his equation and wills his heart to slow down. He has the sense of staring into a _very_ deep hole. This is his last chance to back away from it.

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** Do you want a dude?

 **AmazingHawkeye:** fuck yeah! hd the biggest crush on steve  & bucky when i met them. but i took 2 long 2 decide which 1 i wanted so nat got em both

Instead of slowing, Phil's traitorous heart jackhammers in his chest, and he nearly puts his pencil lead through the paper.

 **TheFightingFrenchman:** Know which you'd choose now, if you had the chance?

Clint goes so long without replying that Phil assumes he's not going to. He's almost done with his problem set before his screen lights up again.

 **AmazingHawkeye:** got my i on someone else now

*

There's not enough coffee in the world to compensate for the four hours of sleep Phil got last night. He hadn't meant to lay in bed, staring at that text (which'd turned out to be Clint's last) 'til his phone battery died; it just happened. Still, he was taught to be polite, so when he spots Darcy struggling to hold the music room door open and haul her cello up the stairs at the same time, he jogs over to hold the door.

"Thanks, Phil," she says with a genuine smile.

He's about to release the door when he remembers. "How's your paper coming?"

She looks at him blankly. "What paper?"

A very unpleasant sensation claws Phil's chest. "Teen sex habits versus adult perceptions of same?"

Darcy shakes her head and pushes a wisp of hair off her face. "I'm not writing a paper like that." She tilts her head. "I should, though. That'd be a great topic. And Clint and Kate would make great research assistants."

He smiles, tight and false. "I bet they would." She's mostly through the door, so he doesn't feel _too_ bad about dropping it before sprinting furiously to his first class.

It's lunch before Phil has a chance to track Clint down. Righteous anger carries him to the door of the shed--but when he arrives, he finds Clint wearing an ancient-looking Field Museum t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and cut-off jeans that _flagrantly_ violate the dress code clause on approved length of shorts and skirts, and everything he wanted to say flies clean out of his head.

*

This is the pattern of Phil's weeks: the archery club meets after school on Tuesdays. He meets Clint (and sometimes Natasha and Steve) at the gym before school on Mondays and Thursdays. On Saturday mornings he spends an hour on the range with Clint, Kate, and a couple other kids from the club and team before rushing to the library to get some studying in. Sometime after lunch, Clint collects him for whatever bizarre adventure The Big Top Gang (no one but Clint calls them this) has schemed up. He's watched horrible '70s cult science fiction movies, made flag-themed craft projects, endured a ballet recital of five-year-old girls--the only requirements are that it cost less than ten bucks and be reachable by public transit. No matter how far afield they wander, they always come back to Doc's afterward.

There are other changes in his life. He gets off his train three stops early and jogs the rest of the way to school. He's obsessed with the Rudolf Matz Cello Quartet, which he first heard in the band room with Clint and the Troika ( _everyone_ calls them this now), played by Darcy and three of her orchestra-mates, on a day his parents thought he was taking an ACT prep seminar. Lying to his parents now comes as easily as solutions to geometry proofs. Clint has become the center of his world.

His parents haven't noticed the changes, but they'll have to, eventually. One of his sleeves will split because it stops fitting his growing biceps. Mom will run into Dr. Hill, who'll mention that Maria says Phil isn't studying with them as much lately. Or one day it'll be too much, the secrecy and sneaking around (and he's not doing anything _bad_ ; since that day in the shed, the weed's remained tucked in its hidden compartment in Bucky's prosthetic arm, and since then their worst delinquency has been overconsumption of caffeine), and when Mom asks how his day was, it'll come spilling out of him--the archery club and the afternoon they spent painting Russian nesting dolls and how he thinks he's in love with Clint.

Phil doesn't _want_ that moment, but it's coming. Until it does, he's clinging to this amazing new life, and if his parents want him to give it up, they'll have to haul him away from it themselves.

*

They've been at it two hours. Most days Phil's hitting his stride now, but today he feels restless, studied out. "What are you guys doing this afternoon?" he asks.

Jasper looks up from cleaning his glasses on his shirttail. "This," he says, like it should be the most obvious thing in the world, which, given who's at the table, maybe it should.

"If anybody wants a break, Natasha's hauling us to the Maya Polsky Gallery for that Soviet surrealism exhibit."

He gauges their reactions. Maria looks horrified, Jasper like he doesn't recognize the sounds coming out of Phil's mouth as words. But Bruce, after a startled pause, grins, in on a joke Phil's not. "Sure," he says. "Who doesn't love some good Soviet surrealism?"

"No thanks," Maria mutters, more to her anatomy book than to him.

"I need to keep studying," Jasper says, though he's third in their class and could do the work in his sleep.

Is this who they are? Phil wonders. They sit in the library and study. If they're feeling fractious, they sit at Starbucks and study, instead. "Hey," he blurts, and then flushes under their scrutiny. "Are we--" He shakes his head. "We're friends, right?"

Bruce and Maria look blank, and Jasper's expression is the facial equivalent of 'The fact that you're asking offends me deeply.'

Red to the roots of his hair, Phil ducks his head behind his book. "Yeah, that's...never mind."

"Hey. Phil." Maria puts her hand on his wrist, and he thinks with a start that it might be the first time she's touched him intentionally, outside poolside roughhousing in junior high. "Of course we are."

Phil smiles, pathetically grateful, and tries to go back to his homework. But asking the question, rather than easing his worry, has intensified it. Because they _are_ friends--stupid to ask, really--but after getting to know Clint and the others, Phil understands that there are friends, and then there are _friends_.

He's known Maria since second grade, Jasper since fifth, and Bruce since seventh, yet he doesn't know Jasper's favorite movie (" _Robin Hood_ ," says Clint's voice in his mind _,_ "and I mean old-school Errol Flynn, not that _Prince of Thieves_ shit; seriously, do not mention that doucherocket's name around me.") _,_ if Maria drinks normal coffee or just fancy Starbucks concoctions (Clint dumping six sugar packets into each mug), or if Bruce's had sex ("nat. but j. like a think friends do 4 each other so we wouldnt b pathetic virgins").

Phil wonders if the important question isn't whether the four of them are friends but whether, all these years, they've been doing friendship wrong. 

* 

Phil's mind is going in three different directions as he sprints up the hall. He's not late for club practice _yet_ , but staying behind after government to ask Ms. Carter about tonight's homework wrecked the comfortable cushion he likes to leave to help him move from school-brain to archery-brain.

Which is how he doesn't notice he's careening towards his ex-girlfriend until he runs into her. "Oh! Pepper! Hey," he says, sliding to a stop.

"Oh, _Phil_ ," Pepper says damply, and Phil takes pride in not rolling his eyes. Pepper was his first (and likely only) girlfriend, and he'll always love her because of it. But since they broke up so he could have his sexual orientation crisis without hurting her and she could date Principal Stark's son, she's looked at him like some sad, broken thing whose coming out has made life inestimably bleaker. It hurts. Same-sex marriage is legal in, like, 16 states, and even where it's not, gay people have loving, long-term relationships and houses and kids and the whole deal. Nobody believes that bullshit about the 'lonely homosexual lifestyle' anymore. Or maybe she just thinks it about _him._ The fact that, as far as she knows, he's been single since they broke up doesn't help his case (she doesn't know about Johnny--and Phil's not sure he counts). She takes his hand like it's gonna break. "How _are_ you?"

He gives an insincere smile and starts to say "Fine," like always. Then he stops and considers, and his smile widens. "I'm great," he says.

Pepper's eyes get misty, and it looks like they're doing this dance again, where she tells him he doesn't have to put on a brave face for her, and he swears he's not, and she pretends to believe him so she can go back to Tony without guilt. Then she leans in close, studying his face. He holds still under the inspection, and she leans back with a huff. "You are, aren't you?" she says. He grins. "Huh." She peers around him, spotting his case. "Did you take up yoga?"

Phil laughs and adjusts the case. "Archery. That's my quiver."

"Oh! I didn't know we had archery." She looks impressed.

"Yup. I'm not great, but the team captain, Clint Barton, and his foster-sister Kate Bishop are, like, Olympics-level. There's a tournament, a week from Saturday. You and Tony could come."

"I--" She blinks, the automatic rejection falling away as she considers his offer. "We might. Thanks, Phil."

"Great," Phil says, "I'll text you the details. See you." As he turns away, he spots Mr. Fury coming out of the main office. For a minute they stop and look at each other, and Phil has the strangest sense of being, not student and guidance counselor, but equals who've reached some understanding. Understanding of what, Phil can't guess, but it's nice. Like Mr. Fury extended a challenge, and Phil met it, and now he's...dependable. Someone Mr. Fury can count on, no matter what.

Mr. Fury kind of smiles, a half-twitch of his lips Phil isn't sure is really there, and Phil realizes how ridiculous he's being. He smiles back sheepishly and heads down the hall. He's got a lot of places to be today. 

* 

"Phillip, I have something for you!" With a stage magician's flourish, Dad presents Phil with a sickeningly familiar brochure. Phil's toast turns to leaden mush in his mouth. "An SAT preparation workshop! Two weeks from today, so you have plenty of time to prepare."

Phil swallows with difficulty. Under other circumstances, he'd laugh at Dad wanting him to prepare for a prep workshop. But there's no laughter in him, because he knows this brochure--he picked it up in the library yesterday while he was waiting for Clint. He'd been looking it over when Clint plucked it from his fingers, returned it to the rack, and reminded him, "That's the same day as the tournament." Phil had been more than happy to leave it and walk out of the building bumping shoulders with Clint, the matter forgotten.

Faced with it once more, Phil wipes his hands on his napkin, takes the brochure, and makes a show of looking it over, as if for the first time. "Thanks, Dad," he says, "but I'm set."

This, predictably, goes over poorly. Dad's eyes narrow, and a dangerous hint of red, like a far-off warning flag, creeps into his cheeks. "What do you mean, 'set'?"

Phil lays the brochure aside. "I've taken two prep workshops and three practice tests. I'll do at least four more practice tests before test day."

"And you'll take one more workshop," Dad says.

Phil shakes his head. "I heard about a study that says if you prep too much, you burn out, and your score goes down." If 'overheard two girls bitching about practice tests making them stupider' meant the same as 'heard about a study'.

"It's important to pace yourself," Dad insists. His finger pokes the brochure. "Take the workshop, and then don't do any preparation for a few days. It will be fine." He nods. "So, should I call and register you? Or would you prefer to do it yourself?" He smiles. "I think, maybe, you're craving your independence?"

"Dad." Phil takes a deep breath. "I'm not doing the workshop."

The warning flag comes closer. "Phillip."

And another breath. "I _can't_. I have something else I have to do that day."

"Reschedule." Dad's voice has gone hard and clipped in a way that reminds Phil of how little Polish respects its vowels.

"I can't," Phil says, matching Dad sharp edge for sharp edge. "It's not--my friends are counting on me to show up."

"Who are these 'friends'?" Dad asks with terrifying calm.

Phil lifts his chin. He's 17, practically an adult. He's never put so much as a toe out of line. His parents ought to trust him to pick good friends. "People I know from school."

"School is for learning, Phillip. Not for playing."

"Robert!" Mom's voice has a frayed edge. Phil doesn't know when she got there, or how much she's heard. "Do you think he spends his whole day with his nose shoved into a book? His lunch hour? The passing period between classes?"

" _Tak_!" A heavy fist pounds the table; Phil and Mom jump. "That's what school is _for_."

"Maybe in Piastów," Mom snaps, "but around here we consider school a key factor in a child's all-around development." Her eyes twinkle, and, with her usual aplomb, shifts the conversation to what she must assume is a safer topic. "So what is this event your friends need you for?"

Phil groans. She thinks she's helping, but she clearly missed the part about the workshop, and now she's sealed his doom. "I'll tell you about it later, okay, Mom?" he says, without a prayer that it'll work.

Because, of course, Dad's still angry. He's not a man who angers easily, and when he does he needs a place--any place--to put that anger. "Phillip," he says darkly, "answer your mother."

Phil spins his half-eaten toast in a circle with the tip of his index finger, focusing hard on it so he doesn't have to look at his parents. "It's an archery tournament."

"Honey, that--I'm sorry, I don't understand." Mom sounds _so_ confused.

"I joined the archery club, and it turns out I'm not terrible. So I'm in this tournament."

A split second of purest silence follows. If you knew how to listen, Phil thinks hysterically, you could hear the angels singing. Then Dad is _roaring_ , furious rapid-fire Polish that Phil catches every fifth word of. He gets the gist. Phil hasn't heard him like this since Dziadzio died. Mom flitters around Dad, hands at his shoulders, his head, anything to calm him down, all while shooting Phil confused, betrayed looks. Hurt he didn't tell her, he realizes.

Phil bears the tirade in sullen silence until he hears " _Harvardzie_ " in the torrent. He leans forward and narrows his eyes. " _No_ ," he says, and nothing more.

His parents freeze, staring at him. He's argued with them before, with the obnoxious superiority only a child prodigy can muster, but never with this flat, emotionless rejection of something they've said. When they continue not to respond, he says, "I joined the archery club to get into Harvard. I joined because being smart isn't enough to get into an Ivy League school."

Dad's too pissed to switch back to English, but "Why not?" isn't a hard translation.

Phil hasn't understood, himself, until this instant, but now it makes so much sense he wants to run to Clint's house and never let go of him. "Anyone can stick their nose in books," he says, "anyone can learn things. Harvard wants people who'll _do_ something with what they learn, who can be smart and passionate and engaged in the world." Dad still looks furious, but now he looks...thoughtful, too. Phil straightens his shoulders and looks at Dad. "So that's what I'm doing two weeks from today."

For the longest moment in Phil's life, Dad stares, breathing slowly returning to normal, purple fading from his cheeks. " _Tak_ ," he says. "Fine. Do this."

It's the sweetest possible victory. 

*

"So, who's good?" Tony Stark has, for reasons unknown, wedged himself into the bleachers between Phil and Pepper and slung an arm around Phil's shoulders.

It's a beautiful day, everything Phil could've wished for the tournament. The sky is blue; the wind is practically nonexistent; and Clint is competing in a sleeveless shirt. Best day ever.

"Well," Phil says, fighting an urge to slide away, since doing so would dump him into Mom's lap, "there's Clint. Kate Bishop--she's a freshman. She's Clint's foster-sister and his...protégé, I guess."

Tony rolls his eyes--even behind his sunglasses Phil can tell. "What about the competition? Everybody loves a rivalry. _Somebody_ from one of the other schools has to be good."

Phil frowns. He hasn't thought about the competition much. He dredges up a name from a conversation with Kate a couple weeks ago. "Laufeyson," he says. "Loki Laufeyson."

"That name could not possibly be more made up."

Phil shrugs. "He's the guy."

"All right," Tony says, unconvinced. He slides his sunglasses down his nose and peers at Phil. "You're not bad, Coulson. I never got what Pep saw in you, but it halfway makes sense now."

Phil smiles. "I was way less cool when Pepper and I were dating."

Tony harrumphs and pushes his sunglasses up. "Then color me back to confused."

On Phil's other side, Mom looks around with baffled wonder, at once thrilled that Phil's doing something besides studying and confused that she's spending her Saturday at an archery tournament. Dad's absence is unsurprising but surprisingly painful. Bruce and Betty sit on the bench in front of them, turning periodically to ask Phil about things happening on the range. Phil watches Clint.

A voice on the loudspeaker announces, "Competitors in the Open Division, novice level, please report to the staging area. Open Division, novice level, to the staging area."

Phil rolls his shoulders and pops up, grinning. "That's me."

His friends cheer, and Mom smiles with quiet pride. He makes it to the end of the row when Betty calls, "Hey, Phil, you any good at this?"

He gives her his sharpest smile. "Watch and find out."

Just between the range and the entrance to the staging area, Phil stops for hugs from Natasha, Bucky, and Steve, who've forgone seats in favor of a better view of the range. "You ready to kick ass?" Bucky asks, and Phil nods. He is.

Clint's just finished his recurve quarterfinal and is bouncing around the staging area, ignoring the glares Laufeyson shoots his way. "Hey!" he says as he spots Phil, bounding over with an enormous grin on his face. "Can you believe how perfect these conditions are? No wind; sun behind us--I almost jizzed myself when I realized." Phil feels the flush run up his neck, and Clint's laughter peals over him. "You're cute," Clint declares, squeezing Phil's arm. "Stay with me 'til our results go up?"

Phil looks toward where the Open Division kids are circling up. They're milling aimlessly; he's not missing anything yet. "Sure," he says, smiling, and the grin he gets in return would be worth missing his whole round for.

The loudspeaker crackles. "Results are now posted for Team Division, men's recurve quarterfinal 3. Please consult the scoreboard for the results of the Team Division, men's recurve quarterfinal 3."

Clint and Phil turn in unison, and it only takes a second for the cheer to burst from Clint's lips. " _Fuck_ yes!" he crows. He's won his quarterfinal, not that that was in doubt, beating Laufeyson by three points (coincidentally, how far he was _behind_ Laufeyson in the compound quarters).

Phil grabs Clint hard around the waist and pulls him into a fierce hug. "Nailed it," Phil says.

"Every goddamned time!" Clint agrees, and kisses him.

Heat floods Phil's body, pulse thundering in his ears. His hands slide around Clint's back, fingers spreading across broad muscle. Clint's hands cup Phil's jaw, tilting his head to get a better angle. Phil surges against Clint, the kiss now a wet, frenzied slide of tongues and lips that Phil feels to his _toes._

"This is the final call for Open Division, novice level competitors to report to the staging area," the loudspeaker announces, and Clint and Phil pull apart with a matched set of embarrassed looks. "Okay," Phil says breathlessly, forcing himself to step away from Clint. "I'm gonna--I'll see you--I mean, if you--"

" _Go_ ," Clint says, laughing. "We'll talk after. Go shoot things."

"Yeah, like I'm going to be able to concentrate now," Phil gripes, but he goes, and Clint slaps his ass as he does.

Has Phil mentioned that today is _perfect_?

Phil stays on the range until he loses his quarterfinal (but, hey, he made it to the quarterfinals!). He waves at Clint, who's gnawing his fingernail and looking stressed as hell while he waits for the recurve semifinals, and trudges back up the bleachers. Pepper, Tony, Jasper, and Maria have left, but they've picked up Natasha, Steve, and Bucky, Darcy and Kate (who swept every category in the women's team division), and their friends Justine and The Other Kate.

Justine holds out her fist, which Phil bumps automatically. "What was that for?" he asks.

"We saw you and Clint sucking face down there," she informs him. "Congratulations on tapping that."

"Oh, _ew_ ," Kate says, shuddering.

"What?" The Other Kate demands. "Have you _seen_ his arms? And his face? And his everything?"

"That's our _brother_ , perv."

"Girl's got a point, Katie-Kate," Darcy says, eyeing the range.

"Oh, ugh, _shut_ _up_." Kate covers her eyes with her hand.

"Okay, before this gets weirder," Phil says, holding his hands up, "that was our first kiss. I haven't tapped anything yet."

Justine gives him the scornful look only freshman girls can muster. "Fist-bump retracted, dude."

"Charming," Phil mutters, rolling his eyes before he turns and starts picking his way toward his mom. The Other Kate's shout of, "But you _will_ , right?" follows him, as does Kate Bishop's insistence that "Oh my god, I will kill you _both_."

"I didn't know your dad was Polish," Natasha says as he passes her. She's at the end of a row, Steve leaning against her with a sketchbook on his lap and a look of near-frantic concentration turned toward the range, Bucky beside him with a hand vanished suspiciously beneath the sketchbook.

"I-- _what_?" Phil looks around wildly. How would she know that?

Oh, fuck. She knows because Dad's one row up, between Mom and Bruce. He came to watch Phil compete, to watch him be good at something other than academics. And, apparently, to make out with Clint. "Oh, god," Phil whimpers.

Natasha and Steve look up at the sound. "Phil?" Steve asks. "You gonna be in trouble?" Steve knows a thing or two about bad parental reactions to coming out.

"I don't--" Phil looks everywhere but at his parents, unready to meet their eyes. But then a helpless chuckle escapes him. "No, it's good. It's fine. Two guys kissing in public. What could be more American?" When Natasha lifts one elegant red eyebrow, he says, "You didn't know he's Polish because he doesn't believe in multiculturalism. He's living in the great American melting pot--assimilate or die trying. Piastów is in his speech patterns if you know what to listen for, but he spent his first two years here losing his accent."

"Is that why he changed his name? Coulson isn't very Polish."

Phil stifles a giggle. "It's so much worse than that," he says. "When he and Mom got married, he took her name. Thought it sounded more American."

"Is it?"

He shrugs. "It's more Irish. Don't think that makes it 'more American', whatever that means."

Natasha hums. "We had a good conversation, anyway."

Before Phil can sort out a response to that, a sharp whistle pierces the air. Everyone turns to see Betty, face as innocent as the moon, lowering her fingers from her mouth and jerking her head toward Phil's parents. "Yo, Coulson. Parental summons."

Phil grits his teeth and heads up, startled when Natasha squeezes his hand as he goes. "Why does everyone think you're _nice_?" he hisses at Betty, who beams. He climbs over her and Bruce and then, after brief consideration, over Dad as well, settling between his parents. It's a strategic maneuver; though he won't be able to escape, he's hoping they'll appreciate the effort at family togetherness. "Um, hi, Mom," he says, then looks in the general vicinity of Dad's shoulder. "Hi, Dad. Thanks for coming."

"You did well, Phil," Mom says, loyal to the end.

He smiles. "I did, actually, for someone who started doing this four months ago."

"And the boy?" Dad asks. Every muscle in Phil's body tenses while he tries to parse the tone: soft, uncertain, like he's not sure whether he's angry.

"Clint Barton," Phil says, also quiet. "He's a sophomore, captain of the club. And the team. He's _really_ good."

"At several things," Mom murmurs. Phil twists on the bench and _stares_ , heat rushing into his face. She smirks and keeps her eyes on the range. In front of them, the Troika chuckles.

Dad's frowning. "Did you join this club because of him?"

"No." Phil shakes his head. "I joined the club because the career counselor basically ordered me to. Meeting Clint was..." He ducks his head, embarrassed at being caught out as a sap. "A gift." He hears a couple "Awww"s around him; he's pretty sure it's Betty and Bucky.

"Sidebar!" Bucky says, sitting up suddenly and raising a finger. In his olive green Communist Daughter t-shirt and ripped cargo pants, he looks like a hippie lawyer. "What is up with Sitwell and Hill?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do they have the weirdest friendship ever, or does one of them need to man up and ask the other out?"

A startled laugh flies out of Phil's mouth. "Done," he says. "They've been together a year. They're just private about it."

'Private,' Bucky mouths, and Phil wonders what he and his friends seem like to them. Quiet, restrained, boring. He doesn't regret it. He's grateful that Clint and the Troika have brought him out of his shell, but in the end he is who he is, and he's not interested in changing.

Steve twists on the bleacher and studies Phil. "That's not Clint, you know," he says carefully.

Phil's heart picks up speed, his mouth goes dry, and he rubs his itching palms down his thighs to try to calm them. "What do you mean?"

"When Clint is with someone," Natasha says, "he goes all in. If you two are together, everyone will know it."

"It was _one kiss_ ," Phil protests weakly.

"Phil," Steve scoffs. "You brought him coffee the second day you knew him. He _named_ you. Not our fault neither of you realizes you've been dating ever since."

If anyone says anything else, Phil misses it over the roaring in his ears. Is that true? Have he and Clint been dating all semester? Would Clint _want_ that for them--for there to _be_ a them and for everyone to know it? Nothing he's imagined--and, god, the things he's imagined, stolen kisses in the equipment shed, frantic fumblings in the dark--has anything on the sunlight he's being offered. To be in the open--Clint taking his hand at tournaments, kissing Clint at his locker during passing--to point proudly at Clint and tell everyone, "That's my boyfriend"--Phil can't deny himself that. Heart in his throat, he cuts a glance at his father, who's scowling.

"You will not go out on school nights," Dad says. He's rock-still and not looking at Phil. "He can come to the house to study, or you can go to his, but you will not have... _dates_ on school nights."

"Okay." It comes out as a whisper. Phil knows he's stupid to treat Dad like an easily spooked animal, but that's how Dad's acting. He wasn't anywhere near this bad when Phil dated Pepper. Then again, Phil and Pepper hadn't been very... _coupley_. They mostly hung around in school, and when the last bell rang, she went to do whatever was in her busy activity schedule for the day, and he came home to his books. They met each other's parents a total of three times each, all at school functions. In retrospect, the fact that they stayed together for almost an entire school year seems miraculous.

"Your curfew is 9:00 on school nights, 10:00 on weekends."

"Unless there's a reason to be out later," Mom offers, and smiles. "Everything's negotiable."

"Julie, it is _not_ ," Dad growls.

"He's 17, Robert," Mom says. "Let him _be_ 17\. Midnight on weekends."

" _Ten_."

"Eleven?" Phil offers.

Mom laughs and squeezes his shoulders. "Getting gutsy, kid. I like it."

"Eleven," Dad concedes sullenly. Then he turns, the full weight of his gaze boring into Phil. "If you are accepted to Harvard, you will go. This is in no way negotiable. You will not delay a year to wait for this boy; you will not decide on Chicago or Northwestern to be closer to him. You are the first in our family to have a chance at Harvard, you will not pass it up."

Phil startles. The thought's never crossed his mind. "Dad, I'd never--" He shakes his head. "Of course I'm still going to Harvard."

" _Dobry_ ," Dad says, turning back toward the range. "We are agreed."

"One other thing," Mom says, eyes twinkling. "Clint _will_ come over for dinner. At least once a week."

Phil closes his eyes and groans. His friends aren't even trying to pretend they're not laughing, and he's sure someone's been texting Clint the whole time, updating him on negotiations around the relationship they're not technically having yet.

His phone buzzes ten seconds after the scoreboard confirms Clint's advancement to the compound finals. _stop freaking out_ , the first messages says. Then a second: _well talk after_

Phil puts the phone back in his pocket. Not freaking out is _not_ on today's agenda, but he can relax enough to watch his probably-boyfriend kill it on the archery range. While grinning so wide his face aches. 

*

For the rest of the afternoon, Mom gives a lot of unsubtle hints about wanting to meet Clint, but Phil is a world of _not ready_ on that front. As soon as the awards ceremony finishes filling Clint's muscled arms with trophies and an invitation to the state tournament, Phil pawns his parents off on Bruce and Betty, promises to be home by 11, and charges down the stands toward the range. He pauses when he passes the Troika, gathering their things. "Hey," he says, "you guys know I like you a lot, right?"

"Sure, Phil," Steve says easily.

"Awesome. Then you won't be offended when I say I better not see you 'til Monday."

Natasha's bright laugh peals through the air. Bucky claps a hand on Phil's shoulder, laughing, and Steve's disapproving scowl holds for all of three seconds before he grins at Phil, shaking his head as they walk away.

As the tournament's hosts, Shield's archers are responsible for most of the clean-up. Vice Principal Ross assigns Phil to helping the judges pack up their gear while Clint oversees the dismantling of the targets. It's almost an hour before they're released, and then Clint has to sweet-talk Kate and Darcy into explaining to their parents why he's not coming home right away _without_ mentioning Phil. By the time they meet at the edge of the parking lot, Clint looks drained. But he smiles when he sees Phil, shifting his duffle bag to his other shoulder and, with a level of trust that punches Phil in the gut, letting Phil take his bow and quiver so they can hold hands while they walk. "How did the summit go?" Clint asks. He curls his fingers around Phil's; Phil's heart slams in his chest.

Phil glances sidelong at him. "Summit?"

"Yeah. I hear there was some intense haggling going on."

"Oh, lord." Phil sort of body-checks Clint with his shoulder, and Clint's pleased laugh warms Phil.

"I hope you got a good deal for me."

"We weren't negotiating a bride price, Clint, Christ. And how are you the bride in this scenario?"

He shrugs, swinging their hands back and forth. "The Bishops are loaded. If anybody could afford a dowry..."

"And yet you still dress like a carnie." Phil has asked several times how Clint's managed to live with Kate and Darcy for three years without a massive wardrobe overhaul, but he keeps mum on the subject, claiming that revealing his secret will drain its power. Keeping up with Clint's superstitions is exhausting sometimes.

"It's called a personal aesthetic, asshole."

"'Sexy hobo' isn't an aesthetic."

They've made it to the Reliant, which Clint for some reason has backed into a space at the lot's far edge. It's one of the last cars left. Clint loads their gear into the trunk and then leans against the passenger-side door, arms crossed, glaring at Phil with hooded eyes. "Look here, Coulson," he drawls, giving Phil an insouciant once-over that raises prickles along his skin, "I heard you got screwed in the curfew and privacy departments, so I was gonna offer you some truly spectacular car sex. But if you'd rather insult my clothes..."

Phil loses all capacity for speech. Higher brain functions, along with the majority of his blood, pool in his dick. Mouth sere, skin tingling, he shuffles forward a step, then another, until his body is flush with Clint's. Clint reels him in for a slow, sloppy kiss dripping with filthy promises, and grinds the heel of his hand against the front of Phil's pants. Phil groans, and Clint jerks away, hands twitching at his sides. "I mean--if that's not--that was only our second kiss; I'm not assuming--"

"Clint," Phil says gently, looping his arms around Clint's waist and pulling them back together, "I haven't been able to think about anything else all afternoon. I give complete and enthusiastic consent to damn near anything you want. Besides," he adds with a grin and a small kiss, "the Troika thinks we've been dating all semester. We've been more than patient."

With the dexterity and determination Phil's come to admire over the last few months, Clint keeps kissing him while he fishes his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. "Don't move," he orders when he pulls away. He kneels on the seat and rummages in the back, coming back with one of those giant screen things that're supposed to keep the car cool in the summer. "Privacy!" Clint announces, half-turning on the seat and wrestling the screen into place. Phil shifts, caught between amusement and lust. Any privacy Clint thinks they're going to have here will be illusory, though this knowledge fails to diminish Phil's erection to any noticeable degree.

Clint hops back out of the car, pushes the passenger seat back and tips it down. He kisses Phil again, all demanding tongue and nipping teeth this time. Phil groans, then gasps when warm air hits his ass and the back of his legs. "How did you do that?" he demands, the _without my noticing_ hanging unspoken in the air between them.

Clint shrugs and shoves Phil toward the car. "In," he commands, and Phil's dick twitches at the promise and command in his voice. He has no idea what's about to happen, but he trusts Clint implicitly, so he slides, as gracefully as he can manage with his pants and boxers around his ankles, into the seat. Clint follows immediately behind him, hauling the door closed as he sinks to his knees on the car floor.

"Fuck," Phil moans, head thunking against the headrest.

"Okay, I've never done this before," Clint says, though the long-lashed gaze he turns up to Phil undermines his claims of innocence. "So if it sucks--pun totally intended, by the way--"

"Clint," Phil gasps as his fingers clench and unclench against his thighs, "the only way it could suck is if it doesn't happen."

"Oh. Right. Okay." Clint spends a second looking at Phil's cock like it's an ice cream cone he isn't sure how to start eating. Then he leans his head down and swirls his tongue around the head experimentally.

Phil gasps and bucks up, narrowly avoiding clocking Clint in the face with his dick. He starts to apologize, but Clint looks delighted by the reaction. He wraps a hand loosely around the base, opens his mouth, and swallows Phil down. He doesn't get far, but his mouth is all wet heat and strong suction, and Phil feels everything tightening, like his skin isn't even big enough for his body anymore. "Are you _sure_ you've never done this before?" he grits out.

Clint pulls off with a wet pop that's almost as hot as the sex itself. "Turns out," he says, while his hand idly strokes up and down Phil's dick, "Heather's super-opposed to parental Internet controls. She wants to be a _friend,_ not a _mom_." They chuckle; Clint's foster mom is kind of awful at parenthood. "You don't want to know how much gay porn I've watched over the last two months."

Phil groans at the thought of Clint, sprawled across his bed or hunched in his desk chair, watching, wanting Phil enough to study this stuff, bringing himself off in the flickering light of his computer screen. " _Clint_ ," he pleads. Clint takes him in again, a little deeper, moving faster now, desperate moans escaping his own throat as he licks and sucks the thoughts out of Phil's head, hand keeping up its frenzied strokes, and it's no time at all before Phil reaches down, saying, "Clint, I'm gonna--" and trying to pull Clint away. But Clint stays stubbornly put, and that familiar determination twists something in Phil, and he comes, gasping, eyes screwed shut as Clint swallows it all down.

Clint coughs once, long and shuddery, and Phil forces his eyes open. "You okay?"

" _So_ good." Clint beams at him, and Phil surges into motion, leaning down and getting his hands under Clint's arms, hauling him onto his lap. "Oh!" Clint says, latching onto him in a fiery kiss that shakes Phil to the core as he chases his own taste in Clint's mouth. Clint's cock, still hard, presses against him, and he fumbles sex-stupid fingers at the waistband of Clint's sweats, getting his boxer-briefs over his hips, as well, through dumb luck more than intent. He reaches out, but Clint bats him away. "Later," he promises breathlessly.

Phil understands, so he lets his rest on Clint's hips to give some semblance of support. He watches Clint's face, watches his hand stroke and twist. Phil surges up, yanking his shirt off and flinging it away. "Clint," he says.

Clint's eyes fly open, and he understands Phil's offer instantly. "Oh, fuck," he grunts, and leans forward, come splashing hot and fast across Phil's chest.

Clint slumps forward. One hand twitches around his spent cock; the other seeks Phil's, lacing their fingers together. "Damn," Clint groans. Phil agrees by leaning up and kissing him. The kiss is slow, no more need to rush, and his toes curl in his shoes as Clint presses a palm against his chest. "By the way," Clint says, voice soft and pleased, "A++ cock. Would suck again."

Phil groans and slips his hand under Clint's t-shirt, stroking the sweat-slicked skin of his back. "If you were that good at your first blowjob, you're gonna be _lethal_ pretty soon."

"And you will love _every damned second_ ," Clint predicts smugly.

Phil grins, absurdly pleased with Clint's assumption that _he_ will be the recipient of those ever-improving cock-sucking skills. He reaches for his shirt, thinking of cleaning them up, but Clint stills him, reaching back to paw through the glove compartment until he finds a package of wet wipes. They clean each other up with a lot of laughter and wandering hands, and by the time Clint tucks the used wipes into an old fast food bag he finds in the back seat, they're breathless and half-hard again. But they're also cramped and uncomfortable from the close quarters of the car, so they reluctantly get their clothes in order and Clint clambers over the center console into the driver's seat, tossing the screen into the back seat on his way.

The instant the car's started and in gear, Clint reaches over and takes Phil's hand. A spark runs through Phil before calm contentment washes over him. He rubs Clint's wrist and watches the ugly buildings of Shield High slide past.

"Derek and Heather want you at the fancy celebration dinner they're taking me and Kate to," Clint says.

"I am _not_ dressed for that."

"That's why I'm going to your house first, so you can change."

"You'll have to meet my parents," Phil points out.

"Dude, I just blew you in a Reliant. I could stand to meet your parents."

Phil snorts. "You are so going to regret that. Dad's face was stuck on 'glare' all afternoon, and Mom wants you over for study dates and weekly dinners." He shakes his head. "We were two goats and a bag of millet away from an actual arranged marriage." He thinks it wouldn't be bad, being married to Clint. Then he thinks he's two months shy of his 17th birthday and shouldn't be thinking about marrying anyone.

"I hope we kept Nat entertained, anyway."

"All three of them were laughing the entire time," Phil says, rolling his eyes.

Clint squeezes Phil's hand before he has to take his back to turn a corner. Phil smiles and settles more comfortably in his seat. "Hey, good job at the tournament today," he says, mortified he hasn't thought to mention it until now.

Clint beams at him. "Thanks. You too, Phil."

In the sky above them is a cloud shaped kind of like an arrow. Clint turns on the radio and sings along, totally unironically, with some old Fleetwood Mac song, and Phil closes his eyes. Halfway home he dozes off and dreams that SAT scores are determined by three arrows. He shoots a perfect 2400. 

*

Phil runs his hands along the curve of his bow, checking for new dings and warps. Not that he could do much if he found any. The bow's a piece of crap; he can only imagine what Clint would say about it, but he considers himself lucky to have found it. It's not like recurve bows are laying around most second-hand sporting goods stores.

"My friend!" A heavy hand thuds onto Phil's shoulder as he stands, pushing him back down. "What glorious honor is showered upon us, that a modern god should descend to our humble tournament!"

Phil scowls; he rarely has any idea what his roommate is saying. It's not the accent; the accent's fine; it's that Phil literally doesn't understand what the guy's talking about, like, 90 percent of the time. "Thor, I have had zero coffee this morning. Could you, maybe, be less Shakespearean in your declamations?"

Thor's finger thrusts like the arrow of fate to the front of the spectator section. It's predictably sparse, but there are two people against the rope that marks off the competition grounds--two people Phil never expected to see here. His heart leaps, and he doesn't stop the goofy grin stealing across his face. "Clint Barton, one of the great Olympians!" Thor says. "We are honored by his presence!"

The world, it seems to Phil, gives a collective "WTF?" as he frowns at Thor. "How do you know who Clint is?"

Thor frowns back. "I may be an alien in your country, Phillip," he says, and, oh, great, he's got his 'really serious' face on, "but I am devoted to this noble sport, and I recognize a member of America's Olympic archery team when he arrives on my campus."

A storm cloud settles in Phil's head. He thrusts out his bow. "Hold this, please." When Thor stands there looking confused, Phil adds, "Otherwise I'm going to break it over that great Olympian head."

First things first, though. As soon as he's close enough to that dear, gorgeous, grinning face, Phil reaches across the rope, grabs Clint by the nape of his neck, and kisses him with all the pent-up frustration an 18-year-old college freshman who hasn't seen his boyfriend in two months can muster (a lot, in case you're wondering). He pulls back with a smack, leaving Clint looking delighted and dazed. Phil keeps his hold on Clint's head. "You--" Phil darts in for another peck of lips. "--brilliant--" Another peck. "--idiot!" And another.

Clint blushes and squirms, but Phil holds firm. "Surprise?"

"Clint! The _Olympics_!?"

Clint's eyes widen. "How did you know?"

"Thor."

"How did _he_ know?"

They all look at each other and groan. " _Loki_." That had been a kick in the pants for Phil, discovering that his roommate's brother is Clint's high school archery nemesis.

"I was gonna tell you!" Clint insists. "That's, like, half of why we came out here!"

"The other half is that Clint is a sex-obsessed maniac."

With a burst of laughter, Phil releases Clint and pulls Natasha into a hug, which she bears for 2.3 seconds before detaching so smoothly Phil doesn't realize it's happening 'til it's over. Russian ninjas, man.

"The other half," Clint says, glaring death-daggers that Natasha ignores, "is that my man's competing in an archery tournament!"

Phil blushes to the roots of his hair. "It's Harvard intramurals. Not worth an Olympic archer's time."

Clint blushes, too. "You're going to keep calling me that, aren't you?"

"For pretty much the rest of our lives," Phil says, nodding. They freeze as they realize what he's implied, but then Phil grins and doesn't take it back. Doesn't _want_ to take it back.

Phil has a thousand questions. When did Clint find out about the Olympics? What does it mean for his summer or his plans to go to Boston College in the fall? Are Natasha, Steve, and Bucky still on their time-out? Could he ever explain to Mr. Fury what he did for Phil that day, forcing him to join the archery club?

All of it can wait. All that matters now is that Clint's here, it's a beautiful day, and some preppy assholes from South Quad are about to kick his ass. He kisses Clint one more time, squeezes Natasha's hand, and goes to reclaim his bow.

**Author's Note:**

> Machine wash, [tumbl-dry low](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/).


End file.
